Archive for the ‘Best Wife’ Category

Weekend Warrior

I love the invention of weekends.  One 24 hour “break” from our normal routine is often not enough to rest and regroup our earthly selves.   Whether your weekend includes the standard Saturday and Sunday, or falls on two other consecutive days in a week, it has been my experience that a time period of at least 48 hours is required when seeking to regenerate your entire being.  We may not have the opportunity to take advantage of every weekend in this manner, but scheduling at least one “weekend” for yourself (every now and then) can work wonders.

It is often the “selfish” acts of a good witch that create a benefit to those that she lives, works, and meets with.  Most of us have heard this advice at least a million times before, but often fail to heed these brilliant words.

“It’s important to take care of yourself, first and foremost.”

It seemed that this wisdom was offered to me on a regular basis when my kids were younger.  I always thought that this statement was just a polite method of providing comfort to a young mother who appears to be physically and emotionally spent.  The wisdom was appreciated, but I never really knew what “taking care of myself” would entail.  I had some ideas, but they did not originate with me.  Even if I did have some inkling of what I would require in order to take care of myself, I sure the hell did not have the time for it.

In any case, you do not necessarily have to be a full-time parent to have heard this advice offered on occasion.  A timely message can be communicated through various means.  Perhaps the next time that you hear these words, you could regard it as a reminder from Higher Self to discover (and remember) the appropriate care that your entire being requires in order to expand.

The details of SELF care are determined by you.  For me, the process has produced a more lasting effect when I address all aspects of what I consider to comprise my ‘entire’ being.

There are several theories regarding the particular elements that comprise one’s entirety.   Most of these assessments suggest that our being includes the body, mind, and spirit.  Myself, I have always preferred the notion that there is a fourth aspect that includes the heart (or the core) of an individual.  Some would argue that this is what ’spirit’ is, while I prefer to recognize Spirit in more of a collective sense.

I think of Spirit as the Oneness that we all have a connection to, whereas the ‘heart’ defines my individual soul aspect and the personal nature of Spirit.  When I regard the ‘core’ being as a separate aspect, I find that I am able to wrap my brain around the comprehension of a certain space that resides within.  This space would be where free will, choice, and private emotion exist.  (This is most likely due to the fact that my big, fat, out-of-proportion mind likes to over-analyze everything, and therefore, finds satisfaction in creating a separate element to include for evaluation.)

HOWEVER you may perceive the aspects of your individual being, designating a 48 hour period to take care of yourself is most productive when you address each part of your SELF.  The body may need comfort, the mind may need stimulation (or QUIETING), the spirit may need nourishment in the form of appreciation, and the heart and soul may need the personal attention of your complete awareness.

The first day of your mini-vacation will most likely be comprised of the actual preparation necessary in order to allow yourself the time that you will need on the second day.  It seems that it is within this second 24-hour period that one can actually EXPERIENCE the personal process of effective self-care.  When my children were younger, I know that it was practically impossible for me to unwind and rejuvenate in one 24 hour period.  Being granted a “day off” seemed never enough time.

By the time that I figured out that shopping alone for an afternoon, or taking a bath without hearing someone call “mommy” for a few precious moments, were mere FRAGMENTS of the time that I really needed, it seemed as if my “day off” was over.  It took several years of trial and error to realize that the genuine benefit of “time to yourself” requires that an adequate portion of that time be used to adequately prepare!

When the budget is tight, or the babysitters are scarce, or the roommate won’t leave for two days, this is the time to be a creative weekend warrior.  Consciously project your intention to partake in some “solitary time” and often the opportunities to schedule a “selfish” weekend will appear.  It is often when you expect compliance, understanding, and compassion from any vested parties, that you will get it.  Roommates can mysteriously get invited to join someone on a weekend adventure, or husbands may suddenly feel a need to take the kids to visit Grandma for a few days.

In any event, once you are able to mark your “weekend” on the calendar, the prospect of what you will do with your time is personal.

Enjoy it.  It is your gift to you.

“Not I,” Said The Cat

Since when is suffering considered a hallowed virtue?  There is not a doubt that any well-bred Catholic would probably have the answer to that.  The esteemed qualities that are required for sainthood include forbearance, suffering, and ultimate sacrifice.  Individuals who exhibited these traits throughout their lifetime, and then demonstrated their “holiness” by dying for their faith, were to be held in the highest regard.

Most Catholics (or at least those of us that were raised in the 1960’s) were taught that suffering is “saintly.”  Any time that I was experiencing pain, or unpleasantness of any kind, there was usually a nun nearby to remind me that I should “offer it up as a sacrifice to Christ.”  I was not at all certain how that was going to help me, but I was taught that it was disrespectful to question a nun.  It may have been more clear had she told me to just shut-up and quit complaining.

Along with a hefty dose of guilt, being raised in a large Catholic family usually comes with a complimentary ration of martyrdom.  Any mother who raises her face to the heavens, closes her eyes, and covers her forehead with the back of her hand portrays a classic image.  Of course, my own dear mother was never that dramatic.  This exaggerated depiction comes to mind because at one time or another, all of us were told that we would be responsible for sending my mother to an early grave.  (Fortunately, she is now 83 years old and still alive and VERY well.)

Perhaps this early notion of ’suffering’ is the reason why I once found the tale of The Little Red Hen so appealing.  The intended lesson of the story is to demonstrate the virtue of “sharing in the work if one is to share in the rewards.”  Somehow, I managed to interpret the circumstances of this story to personify the task of parenting.

The Little Red Hen does it all.  The dog, the cat, the pig, and the turkey do not want anything to do with planting the grain, reaping the wheat, threshing the wheat, taking it to the mill to have it ground, baking the flour, and making the bread.  But they sure the hell want to help eat it.  This sounded familiar.

“I just spent all damn day cleaning that floor, and you just walk in here without even wiping your feet.”

“I just ironed that shirt!  You try it on, decide that you don’t want to wear it, and then throw it on your closet floor?!”

Scenarios like these could explain how an overworked, stressed-out, stay-at-home parent could sometimes feel like The Little Red Hen.  Every hen needs an outlet to decline the ancient appeal of martyrdom.

When you tend to your connection to All That Is, you are able to see yourself as Source sees you.  Divine Source knows that you do not have to suffer to be appreciated.

Routinely giving yourself those solitary moments that nourish the heart will serve to remind you of the grandness of your being, and ignite the appreciation of your true nature.  Appreciation is one of the most powerful vibrations that expands in brilliant fashion when directed from within.

Once self-appreciation is allowed to flow freely, people will notice a clean floor, and even turn around to wipe their feet, without you having to say a word.  Almost like magic:)

What A Coinky-dink!

I love coincidences in life.  The recognition of corresponding  circumstances and events that occur throughout one’s daily life are significant indicators of creation in action.  Coincidences are personal message boards provided by the Universe to confirm that your vibrational output is aligning with your heart’s desire.  Just when you start to entertain some doubts about whether or not Spirit knows what the hell It is doing, it seems that an unmistakable ‘reminder’ will show up in the form of an unlikely coincidence.   Substantial correlations, and even the seemingly obscure moments, can provide the mindful observer with those “aha” moments when we are prompted to say, “Thanks, I needed that!”

Of course, intentionally searching for relevant signs that you are achieving vibrational alignment with Source never works.  The conscious mind is an invasive busy-body that likes to screw up the creation equation.  Until we learn how to revoke our mind’s invitation to the creator’s party, significant messages from the Universe will go unnoticed.  It is only when we relax, and allow our natural rhythms to flow from the heart, that those pleasant coincidences can frequent our daily lives.

You might be driving in your car, and suddenly realize that the words of a song (that you have heard at least a hundred times before) will mysteriously reflect the exact thoughts you had earlier in the day.  Without any special purpose to check the time, you may glance at the clock on your cell phone and notice that it is 4:44 pm,  while you just ended a phone call that lasted for exactly 4 minutes and 44 seconds.  Maybe you read something in the morning that made an obscure reference to a particular item, and then later that afternoon, while waiting in line at the grocery store, you overhear a conversation between two strangers who mention the exact same thing.  These are your confirmations from the Universe that everything is proceeding according to Divine plan.  Your vibrational alignment with Source is timely and true.

Durwood rarely, if ever, reads my posts.  His reasoning includes the declaration that he “lives it,”  and since being married to a witch is weird enough, he does not have to read about it.  Whatever.

Ironically (or coincidentally), the one post that he did read was the Catholic Girl’s Guide to Becoming Arrogant.  I was sitting at my computer finishing the draft, when he uncharacteristically offered to proofread it.  Durwood had never done this before, so I accepted his unusual proposal.  When he finished reading my first draft, his initial response came in the form of one word.

He peered at me through the top of his reading glasses and said, “Whoa.”

“What is it?” I wanted to know.

Durwood replied that he thought the content needed some editing.  He explained that my reference to religion, and in particular, the disclosure regarding my adolescent experience with sexually deviant behavior read in a dispirited manner that did not reflect the true nature of who I am.

“Wow,” I replied. “Really?”  The painful memories of old wounds tend to reveal their unsightly scars when you least expect it.

“This just doesn’t sound like you,” Durwood continued.  “I think of your writing as the embodiment of witch light.  The way that you wrote this is too witch heavy.”

At the exact moment when Durwood finished presenting his observation, the Bud Light commercial ran on the television in the next room.  It was loud enough, too, that both of us paused to hear the words.

The beer campaign’s clever reference to situations that are “not too heavy” or “not too light” was unmistakable.  I had an ‘aha’ moment, while Durwood just grinned and nodded.  As if he had something to do with it.

I rewrote the post. The message from both Durwood and the Universe had been received loud and clear.  “Witch Light” is definitely much more appealing and comfortable for me than “Witch Heavy” will ever be.

If I ever needed any confirmation on that notion, it appears that a Bud Light commercial can furnish a most appropriate and timely coinky-dink:)  I will happily let Durwood take the credit for prompting that one.

What’s with the Green Face?

The Wicked Witch of the West scared the hell out of me when I was a kid.  Every time that she appeared in a scene from The Wizard of Oz, I would resort to using the customary strategy practiced by any normal, frightened child: I covered my face with both of my hands.  This time-honored method would allow me to take the small, measured, one-eyed glimpses that a young child can bear when watching a frightening scene.  Viewing the Wicked Witch of the West through a narrow opening between two fingers did not make her any less terrifying.  Although, when you are a just a kid, any attempt to avoid full exposure to scary stuff does serve to provide some level of adequate security.  Barely peeking at the wicked witch, as opposed to using unimpaired vision, made my encounter with her slightly more tolerable.

“I’ll get you, my pretty.  And your little dog, too.”  Surely, threatening promises that were delivered with a heinous cackle would have been disturbing enough.  But it was most assuredly the creepy green face that always left a haunting impression upon my brain.  This image would last for many months following one of our annual Wizard of Oz television broadcasts during the 1960’s.

One of the most unnerving portions of the movie occurs while Dorothy is locked in the tower of the wicked witch’s castle.  I dreaded the scene during which Dorothy sees her Auntie Em’s image in the enormous crystal ball.  I would wince and hold my breath during the moment when Auntie Em’s reflection would become blurry, and then mysteriously transform into the hideous, enlarged green face of the Wicked Witch.

As many times as I had seen the movie, I knew that the witch’s ghastly face would become larger-than-life within that damn crystal ball, and yet it petrified me each and every time that it happened.  I would cringe while she mocked Dorothy’s desperate cries for Auntie Em with such cruelty.  That extremely large green face, with the pinched eyebrows, and the pursed lips that ridiculed poor Dorothy’s forlorn predicament was brutal.  That was the one image that stuck in my head for months.  The memory of it still wrinkles my nose.

Since the early childhood years in the Bean household were restricted to viewing a black-and-white television set, Durwood was spared the full-color spectrum of the Wicked Witch as seen in all of her evil green.  When Dorothy opened the front door of her fallen house, Durwood and his two sisters thought that Munchkin Land still looked like Kansas.  Apparently, the Wicked Witch of the West was not as frightening in black-and-white.

After all, he did marry me.

What Is That Smell?

Where are all of our empty clothes hangers?!  I’ll tell you where they are.  They have been carelessly kicked beneath our beds and dressers, strewn about on our bathroom floors, or they are tightly wedged and perched cattywampus between all the other occupied clothes hangers in our closets.  They are anywhere else in and around our home, except in the goddamn laundry room where I need them.  It is a source of irritation, indeed.

Ironing is perhaps an even greater source of irritation for me.  In an effort to use the iron as little as possible, I practice a preemptive laundry method.  This system includes plucking freshly laundered, semi-damp clothing straight from the dryer, immediately placing them on a hanger, and misting them with a wrinkle-reducing product.  Then I grasp the clothed hanger by its top hook while I furiously wave the article back and forth through the air, as if I am leading the laundry parade.  To finish, I hang the the article on the clothes line above the laundry tub and I hope for the best.  The worst thing that could happen is that one of our cats will slink around the rim of the tub to inspect the clothing, granting their official seal of approval in the form of an attractive swirled pattern of black fur along the shirt tails and sleeves.  This minor setback is remedied with a quick once-over with a lint roller…if I can find one.

This morning, while in the midst of my save-me-from-the-iron ritual, I ran out of available clothes hangers.  Sometimes they will magically appear when I yell from the laundry room door, “Somebody had better gather their extra hangers and bring them to me right now!”  This only works when there are other humans in the house.  Since no one else was around, I had no alternative but to abort my mission until I could secure an ample supply of hangers.  With a heavy sigh that no one was around to appreciate, I slammed the dryer door, reset the tumbling cycle, and headed out to hunt for empty clothes hangers.

I could not remember if I had been in Jim’s room since he returned to college almost two weeks ago.  I figured that I should start there.

Entering Jim’s room has always been a bit like an adventure.  I never know what I may have to try and not notice.  There could also be potential hazards lying in wait.  Practically invisible, a few discarded guitar strings could latch onto the hem of my jeans and whip themselves around my ankles at any given moment.  I might be forced to tap dance around in order to shake the metal threads loose.  Necessary dance steps could knock over a half-full can of coke that has been perched precariously on a nearby shelf for the past month.  I never know what to expect.  Any visit to Jim’s room over the past eighteen years has been an initiative.

As soon as I opened the door to his room, a familiar odor struck my nostrils.  There are not adequate words in the English language to describe the scent that a son leaves behind in his male den.  It smells like boy.  Boy cave.  That is the best representation of this particular smell that I can offer.

I made my way toward his closet in search of hangers.  I had safely crossed half the distance without incident before my bare right foot pressed down upon a sharp and very distinct rectangular object.  I immediately recognized the source of my pain.  It was a goddamn Lego brick.

Bare feet are no match for a ruthless plastic building block.  In my twenty-two years of motherhood, I have come to regard rogue Lego pieces as weapons.  Even with the minimal sole protection of a flip-flop, there is not an adult heel on the planet that can withstand the highly calculated strike from the sharp corner of a Lego brick.  When left unnoticed along a human foot’s path, one innocent-looking Lego piece has the potential to inflict excruciating pain to any unsuspecting victim.  Given the option, I would rather iron several dozen shirts before I would subject myself to the explosion of pain that one treacherous Lego land mine can deliver.

How this particular evil minion from the wicked Lego empire found its way onto Jim’s floor is a mystery.  I am almost certain that Jim has not ‘played’ with Lego sets since we moved into this house over four years ago.  That was when we poured all of the Lego pieces from a storage container into the drawer beneath his bed.

Jim had packed for his return to school at 2:30 am the night before his flight.  Perhaps while rummaging through his drawers to locate certain items, he unknowingly allowed this one stealthy escapee to attach itself inside some article just long enough to drop to the floor and plan its future ambush.  In any event, I was unpleasantly surprised and highly irritated to feel it embedded between my little toe and foot pad.

I plucked it from the bottom of my foot and called it dirty names.  Obviously, this approach is really effective.  I hobbled toward Jim’s bed to return the evil brick.  I’m sure that it wanted to brag among its fellow heinous friends in the drawer.

Somehow, just opening the drawer to see all the thousands of Lego pieces suddenly tempered my sour mood.  I recalled all the occasions when Jim would sit on the floor for hours on end, content to be lost in the construction of his Lego worlds.  I was smiling.  All past and recent encounters with Lego peril had vanished.  I remembered that it was during these moments, when Jim was completely absorbed in his play, that he was most receptive to heartfelt conversation.

Engaging the quiet attention of a boy who is occupied in some form of activity has always been the main avenue to effective communication between parent and son.  I find that this method holds true among boys who grow up to be men, as well.  Durwood not only listens more attentively when he is engaged in some form of physical activity, it seems that he offers his genuine thoughts to me (or the kids) more readily, too.  If one of us requests his undivided attention without any props to occupy him, we are less likely to succeed in obtaining any authentic responses.

This approach has its limits, of course.  Most of us know that it is pointless to attempt conversation with a boy who is watching any type of sporting event on television.  It is also more productive when we are mindful of personality, dispositions,  and current stress levels when venturing into the realm of boy conversation.

I recall one instance in particular when Durwood was on the back porch cooking hamburgers on the grill.  This had to be at least 15 years ago when we were living in our second home.  Freshly satiated from one of my counseling sessions with a gifted therapist, I was bursting with incite.  I was annoying.  I will never forget how Durwood turned away from me very slowly to lower the volume on the radio he had been listening to.  He turned back towards me, folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head to one side while ceremoniously raising his eyebrows, and executed a very long and dramatic exhaling sound from his nose.  I try to remember that reaction every time I have an inclination to talk to him when I suspect it might not be a good time.  Twenty-four years of marriage has its wisdom.

The Bean girls are seldom detached from human contact.  Katarina and Natalie rarely decline the opportunity to share their thoughts, and any consequential emotions that they may be experiencing.  Jim, on the other hand, has always required a different approach whenever I sensed his need for parental guidance.

When the girls come home from school (or work), they are more than eager to share their daily highs and lows without prompting.  Jim would usually retreat to his cave.  I had different tactics to employ if I ever wanted to offer Jim an opportunity to share his highs and lows with us.  Besides waiting until he was occupied with some form of activity (like playing with his Lego sets), there are a few other suggestions to engage the thoughts of a son.

Given ample time in their lion dens, boys (and husbands) will often emerge eventually.  I like to wait until they pose the question, “When will dinner be ready?”  This is a cue to respond with a short answer, followed by a simple observation on their current mood.  I will inform Jim that “Dinner is soon.”  Then I will add a short remark, such as, “You seem tired (energetic, upset, happy, content, busy, something…).”  This will usually produce a genuine reply.  Even a mumbled “yeah” is considered progress with a teenage boy.  A husband might surprise you with a genuine confirmation, and even be apt to offer more.

When interested in sparking genuine conversation with a son (or a husband!), another guideline to follow requires that you limit your statements to no more than five words or less.  This seems to be the magic number when initiating an exchange.  Anything more than that will fall upon deaf ears.  You will be able to increase the amount of words in your statements eventually, but not until you have successfully drawn their interest first with concise prompts.

Jim will be nineteen years old in a few months.  Between the occasional texts and email messaging, he actually talks with me over the phone for more than five or ten minutes at a time.  When he is home from school, he will spend extraordinary lengths of time chatting with me on the front porch.  (I am smiling again.)

Of course, if he reads this post, he will now be privy to some of my tricks.  In that case, I may have to come up with some new tactics.

I could always send a few Lego sets to him at school.  As long as he doesn’t step on one of those demon bricks, he might just sit on the floor of his dorm room one day and feel the need to call me.  Of course, he’ll have to pick up all of the empty clothes hangers that are spread all over his floor first.

Hello, Stranger

I find that some days it is much easier for me to extend a kind word toward some guy I don’t know behind me in line at 7-Eleven than it is to the guy that I married.

Due to social upbringing it is customary for me to be courteous and polite to others.  I also like people in general, so friendliness is just my nature.  I could be experiencing a most unpleasant day and still nod politely and exchange pleasantries to a stranger that I encounter in public.  On the other hand, let Durwood walk in the door at home and I’m prone to snap his head off.

It helps to determine the source of my irritation.  A troublesome morning at work, an afternoon with a screaming nephew who is cutting teeth, or a teenager who just remembered to inform me that his college application fee was due last week are certainly not the fault of Mr. Bean.  He is simply blameworthy once he entered our home and became a target.  Had it been his own behavior that generated my bitchiness, then that would be an entirely different subject.

It is in the private realm of my relationship with my spouse and other loved ones that I allow terse remarks and contentious behavior to exist.  Even if I’m just plain tired, I wouldn’t talk to the guy who helps me carry my grocery bags out to the car like I’ve talked to my husband on these occasional bad days.  Why do I think it’s okay to talk to Durwood in this tone?  Surely it’s because I haven’t listened to the grocery guy’s snoring for the last 24 years, laundered his underwear, heard his fishing stories and bore his three children.

Fortunately, Mr. Bean is a good husband.  He can recognize the wrath of a woman scorned by his own hand, and is adept in determining otherwise.  Though this is understood, I’d like to stop using his proficiency as an excuse for my occasional malicious streak.  I don’t care for the domino effect it creates in our household.

An’ ye harm none, do as thee will.  Perhaps the next time that Mr. Bean comes home after I’ve had a rough day, I’ll treat him as I would any stranger. Maybe even a tall, dark, and handsome one at that.

Can’t Live With ‘Em, Can’t Hit ‘Em Over the Head with a Shovel…

The masculine energy was so powerful in my house today that I had to go outside just to stop bumping into it.

Marriage, like any relationship, requires a constant balancing act between two distinctly individual energy fields.  Some days these fields overlap and coexist in complete harmony.  Other days, well, it can feel a bit crowded and unbalanced.  It’s days like these I will make a conscious effort to reposition myself before the opposing fronts collide in a violent manner.

It took me a long time to be familiar with my own ‘atmosphere’.  Since I was never a fan of the half-assed approach to knowing thy self, I’ve spent a good deal of time discovering the multifaceted circuitry that comprises my energy flow.  I only experience misery and discontent when I allow the circuitry of another being to negatively interfere with the flow of mine. My beloved husband, Mr. Durwood Bean, is simply wired differently than I am.  Most days we create a well-blended current.  On some days we produce an unpleasant and adverse electrical output.  When I smell smoke, I know it’s time to physically move away from him before someone gets hurt.

One of the most attractive features of the art and science of witchcraft is that unlike most mainstream practices, the feminine energy of intuition and emotion are given as much validity as the masculine energy of logic and thought.  Individual personality traits aside, I’ve found that John Gray’s book “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” is one of the most useful resources for understanding the distinctions between me and Mr. Bean.  I recommend it as a handy reference for anyone interested in the process of mapping out the circuitry of their own individual energy field.  Since reading it for the first time almost 15 years ago, I appreciate John Gray’s accurate descriptions of the natural feminine and masculine traits we project in relation to each other.  Although I’m quite certain that Mr. Bean has never read the book himself, I do know that he has been benefiting from its wisdom:)

Thanks to Dr. John Gray, I won’t be hitting Durwood over the head with a shovel tonight…..though he will be receiving a rather lengthy message from Venus over coffee tomorrow morning.